Real
by demelzap
Summary: An ongoing story about a friendship between Chris Jericho and David Bautista. Rated T for implied adult situations, mild language.
1. Mellifluous

Disclaimer: I do not own these characters, no disrespect is intended, I have no right to use the names. Lyrics used without permission.

**Mellifluous**

Is it self-fulfilling prophecy? I'm not sure as I take my orange juice and bagel and flop down in one of the big chairs along the edge of the room. I said I wasn't going to be able to sleep once I got to Los Angeles, and now I can't. A sip of the juice, but the sight of the bagel turns my stomach. I set it aside untasted.

Early morning feels earlier because of the time change. The muscles along my shoulders ache, more from stress than from the hard workout with Benoit. Another sip of juice, and my stomach settles slightly.

_Welcome to the future...straight into the future._

The song must have played six times in a row last night as we filed down the stairs. Everyone joked about being sick of it, but this _is_ my future. I close my eyes, hold the juice glass balanced on the arm of the chair. While it isn't quite the future I had envisioned, I do have to admit that it's better.

Funny how upstairs in my bed, with the soft sounds of breathing next to me, I wasn't able to sleep. But down here in the room off the hotel lobby, in this comfortable albeit small chair, I feel myself begin to drift off, the song on endless repeat in my brain.

Cereal pinging into a bowl startles me awake. I grip the glass tighter, sit up, and focus my eyes on the person across the room. I watch as he pours milk into the bowl, picks up a spoon, a knife, and a banana. He smiles as he walks toward me.

"You can't sleep, can you."

It's a statement more than a question. Blonde hair tucked behind his ears, he sets the bowl on the table in front of him and goes to work on slicing the banana. Somehow it seems incongruous to watch him engaged in this mundane activity.

"And were you able to sleep the night before Vengeance, when you were slated to win the undisputed title?"

He looks at me from under his eyelashes as he slices the last of the banana into the bowl. The peel set aside, he leans back in his chair and takes a healthy bite of corn flakes and banana. "It's normal," he says, mouth full, "For nerves to get the best of you."

The sound of his munching sets my stomach off again, so I bend forward and set the juice glass on the table. "So what are you nervous about?"

He gives me a puzzled look, then shovels another spoonful into his mouth. "It's not nerves that woke me up," he chuckles, "That would be a hungry toddler."

"Ah, I remember those days." I stretch my legs out in front of me, flex my bare toes. "But if he's the hungry one, then why are you eating?"

He puts on a sad face, his lower lip trembles, and he says in his most pathetic voice, "I want my mommy."

I chuckle as he finishes his cereal, bends forward to set the bowl next to my glass, then flops back into his chair. "You're supposed to reassure me that it gets better," he says.

"Just when it gets better, something new comes along. Kindergarten, braces, boys, driving... hate to burst your bubble Chris, but I don't think it ever gets better."

"Thanks for nothing," he moans.

"Would you reassure me about the nerves?" I say softly.

"Touch" he says, "I don't think the nerves ever get better either."

We sit in companionable silence, the room lighting up slowly as the day dawns. He breaks the silence first.

"June 2001, you were destined for greatness you know. I knew that the first time I saw you at the Louisville Gardens." He raises his hand and strokes along his beard gently as he speaks. "JC and I go back a long way. All the way back to Smoky Mountain Wrestling days. He isn't one for speaking through his ass, so when he told me that you would end up as WWF Heavyweight Champ within five years," he turns to look at me, "I believed him."

"You remember that?"

"He said he knew it back in 2000 when you first came to OVW, He told me, and Mark, and Glenn when we were down there for that super show."

"Hmmm," I still remember Cornette's enthusiasm, and know that I've likely squashed any of it that was left by bashing the OVW system in interviews.

"Listen Dave," he leans over his chair, closer to mine. He speaks softly, his eyes intense. "Maybe you're worried that this is too soon, or that you don't deserve it, or that you aren't ready. But you are ready, and you do deserve it. There aren't many in this business like you, most of us are out for ourselves and only ourselves. You go out there tonight, and you give it your best shot, dig down deep inside for that something extra. Be proud, and you'll make us proud." He cocks his head to the side. "Be mellifluous in the way that only you can be."

"Ma—what?"

His lips curve into a smile, and he tosses one look over his shoulder before standing up. He steps around in front of my chair, and bends down again so his face is level with mine.

"Smooth," he whispers, "And sweet."

The air is charged for a moment, and then he stands and winks. I watch as he saunters from the room, his meaning clear.

"Mellifluous," I whisper.

I lean forward and pick up my bagel. Suddenly I have an appetite.

--end

_Distribution: My own site only._


	2. Symbolic

Disclaimer: I do not own these characters and do not have permission to use their names. No disrespect is intended.

Symbolic

Life on the road is tough because it takes you away from home, and contributes to you missing a lot of things you would just as soon not miss. Child rearing for example. I didn't miss the midnight feedings, but now that Ash was beginning to string words together and explore his sense of self somewhat, I missed giving over that right solely to Jess. Even though it was a strain on her to travel across the country with a not-quite two-year-old, I still asked her to make the trek on occasion.

Right now was one of those times. Dates piled up on top of one another until my body didn't know if it was coming or going. Trips to the Far East were particularly exhausting. I couldn't ask either one of them to endure that hardship, but I did ask her to meet me in California the night I got back. To soften that blow a little, I arranged for her to have a morning of luxury, and I stayed in the room with Ash.

Being that I was already tired, I should have known he would wear me out without too much effort. I prayed he wouldn't get himself in trouble as I flopped back on the bed. Just five minutes of shut-eye, that's all I needed. I could hear him singing happily to himself and his stuffed bear on the floor by my side.

Five minutes, enough time to doze off. Fortunately, he's a curious cuss, and before I knew it he had climbed up on the bed beside me and was playing with my hands. I watched him from between mostly closed eyes. Before I could register his intention, he bent over and spit right on my hand.

"Ash!" I sat up, the glob of saliva ran down my finger on to the back of my hand. "No, no! Don't spit on daddy!" I wiped the back of my hand on the bedspread, grabbed him around the middle and pulled him up into my lap.

"Daddy write," he said, his small face fixed in a frown. Toddlers have this built in defense mechanism in that they're cute, and they say cute things. He didn't quite have all the sounds down yet, and when he said 'daddy' he always managed to leave the middle part of it out so it came out sounding like "daa-eee."

I looked down at my relatively spit-free hand, the ink vivid against pale flesh.

"No daddy," he said with a belligerent look on his face. "No write."

I smiled, and leaned back against the headboard with him cradled in my lap. "No goofy," I said softly, "I didn't write on my hand."

He popped a finger in his mouth and looked up at me expectantly.

"It's called a tattoo," I continued. I held my fingers up so we could both look at them. I suppose it is traditional to have a Celtic design tattooed on your finger as a wedding band, but I'm not a traditional kind of guy. On this recent jaunt to Japan, I had found an artist to tattoo a Kanji script, a symbol of undying affection, on the finger where I normally wore my wedding band.

Ash reached up, his chubby fingers closed around my slim ones, and I winced as he squeezed. "Ow...no squeeze." Sometimes I had to come down to his level so he could understand me. "A tattoo," I continued when he released my hand, "Is like a permanent drawing. It won't wash off, I'll have it on there forever."

His finger slid from his mouth, and he said, "Ash get."

I smiled, "No goofy, Ash can't get a tattoo. Not until you're much older, and then you have to get Mommy's permission," I smiled ruefully. "Mommy doesn't like it very much."

No matter how I'd spun the idea, she didn't seem to like it. I wasn't sure if the issue was that I had done it without telling her first, or that she suspected there was some other significance. After showing her the scrap of paper with the symbols, and their meanings as translated by Masanori, she had begun to come around. "Eternity," that was what I had settled on. Two symbols.

I kissed the top of Ash's head, and he slid down, his ear against my stomach. My inner clock was still out of whack, sleep when I should be awake, and eat when everyone else was asleep. Just as he settled, and I hoped that maybe it was naptime, my stomach growled with hunger.

Immediately he raised his head and looked up at me and the expression on his face made me chuckle. Eyes wide open, he looked from me to my belly and back. Cautiously, he put his head down again, and I obliged by making it growl again. I was hungry.

"Burbly gurgly," he said, the same look of wonder on his face.

"Stomach talk," I replied. "It means it wants a cheeseburger, and french fries, and a big chocolate shake."

He clambered up, and tried to press his ear to his own stomach, and rolled over almost falling off the edge of the bed. I reached out to grab him before he toppled over the edge, hauled him up as I stood. I hoisted him up, and pressed my ear to his tummy.

"Ah HA!" I said triumphantly. "Your belly wants mac and cheese and milk!"

That elicited a giggle. I set him up on my shoulders, grabbed my wallet, and headed out the door. From the coffee shop in the lobby, I'd be able to intercept Jess when she returned from the spa.

I settled him into a booster seat, and let him beat on the table happily with a spoon. The waitress returned with some crackers, and a cup of coffee, I smiled my thanks. Fortunately the restaurant was mostly empty. Too late for breakfast, too early for lunch, the racket wasn't likely to bother anyone except me.

"Da da da," Ash's voice mixed with the sound of the spoon banging against the table.

Because the restaurant wasn't busy, the food came quickly. I ate the burger, and started on the fries, Ash ended up smearing most of the cheesy macaroni on his face but did manage to get some of it in his mouth. Before I could stop him, he picked up the spoon again and began to bang it in the bowl, sending the remnants of his meal flying.

"Whoa there pardner."

I don't know how he does it, a man of his size, but David always manages to sneak up on me, and he always manages to get Ash to settle down. He slid into the booth and held his hand out, Ash happily handed him the spoon. "Good man." He winked and set the spoon down on the table, and turned to look at me.

"How do you always have the magic touch?" I asked, and pushed my plate aside.

He shrugged, and leaned back against the booth. "It's either experience, or intimidation. Maybe a mixture of both."

I leaned back and watched them shamelessly flirt with each other. Ash insisted on listening to David's stomach, to see if he was hungry too. After careful inspection, it was decided that he wasn't, so he just ordered coffee.

As the waitress poured it, he looked across the table at me, brow arched. "So?"

Before I could answer, Jess swept into the restaurant, glowing and beautiful from her morning at the spa. She smiled at David, spared me a small kiss, and tutted at Ash.

"Join us for coffee?" David asked as he slid from the booth to give her room to reach in and extract Ash from the booster seat.

"No, thanks," she said with a smile and a significant look at me. "I better get his lordship upstairs and bathed."

That was my cue, the interrupted conversation would have to be finished later. I slid from the booth, watching as Jess bore Ash away across the room.

Quick as lightning, and with nearly imperceptible grace, David took my hand. He handed me a small tube of Neosporin.

"That will take the sting out," he said softly, and swept his thumb gently over the new tattoo.

I only had a moment, but that was all it took. I leaned in and whispered, "No it won't, but you can do that later."

With a wink, I turned and walked from the room. Nothing would de-stabilize the foundation of my relationship with Jess. That wasn't his aim, and it wasn't mine either.

It's like I said life on the road is tough. Sometimes it's all in how you deal with it.

_Distribution: My site only._


	3. Melancholy

Disclaimer: I do not own these characters, no disrespect is intended

Melancholy

The two worst times of the year to travel are when it is blazing hot, and when it is freezing cold. Since we're on the road all year long, that leaves roughly four weeks of spring, and four weeks of fall when traveling is actually pleasant. Unfortunately the four weeks of spring had come and long gone by the time the dreaded change was made. Sure, it was something I had a hand in orchestrating, but I guess it was a matter of looking better on paper than it did in person. My creature comforts were sorely tried, and I felt like I had cut off my nose to spite my face.

The muggy heat pressed in like a blanket that hadn't stayed in the dryer long enough and was dumped over my head as I trudged from the rental to the motel. Lady Luck was on my side, the air-conditioner was already humming when I flopped down on the bed. It was only a two hour drive from Utica to Watertown, and I smirked as I heard his voice in my head, _Two hours? I can make it in an hour and change._ And he could, he always delivered on whatever he said.

He wasn't here though, he was three hours away in Buffalo, and likely pacing the floor as is his wont before a high-profile match. I sighed ruefully, and turned my face into the blast of cool air. Time enough for the drive tomorrow, tonight I would allow myself to indulge in memories.

----

I still remember the first night we roomed together. Early August 2002. I had just been traded from Smackdown to Raw, but there was still Global Warning to contend with. Lord forbid I miss yet another chance for Adam to rile the fans up by explaining what a "wanker" is. Some things never change, I was ordered to make the jaunt to Australia, like it or not.

David was new on the crew, barely three months past his debut. I knew who he was, Cornette had touted him to me the year before when I was down at OVW for The Last Dance. _He'll be maineventing Wrestlemania within five years._ Cornette's a lot of things, but one thing I've always known is that he knows the business. Perhaps the bumbling Leviathan was lost between the egos of Undertaker, Kane, and Page in that match, but if JC saw greatness there, then I tried my best to see it too.

The trouble with him was that he was tentative. He was back in Louisville, and he still was here in Australia. He kept to himself, "hiding his light under a bushel" as the old saying went. Odd for a man as intimidating as he was.

Through the usual chain of booking and travel screw-ups, all was in line for my inclusion on this trip -- except for a hotel room. I was too travel-weary to cause a scene, and it turned out it wasn't necessary after all. David offered me his spare bed.

Too tired to even brush my teeth, I followed him into the room and collapsed across one of the beds, didn't even bother to undress. I was nearly asleep when he emerged from the bathroom stark naked, and slipped beneath the covers on the other bed. I raised up on an elbow and looked at him. He spared me a glance and mumbled, _If I'm insulting your sense of decency, let me know, but I see no reason to change my sleeping habits because you're in the room with me_.

He wasn't as tentative as I had thought. I roused myself up enough to strip out of my jeans and sweatshirt, mumbled that I was the guest here and he should do whatever the hell he wanted, turned my back and went straight to sleep.

After we returned, he went his way, and I went mine. When our paths crossed at pay-per-views I made it a point to track him down, follow his progress. A friendship grew between us. Little by little he shed that hesitancy, and progressed into the force to be reckoned with that Cornette had prophesied.

Come that November, he was part of Raw. The fledgling friendship grew, we began sharing long car rides together. Desultory late night conversations that ended with me dozing off as he rocketed through the night gave way to rousing discussions about technique, matches, psychology. Before long they branched out into family, he gave me invaluable tips about pregnant women, child rearing, and dealing with all that family bullshit that sometimes bogs you down.

Before long, we shared a room because we wanted too.

----

The cell phone's little song of defeat roused me from my reverie. Out in the sticks it goes into analog roaming mode, and that tends to eat up the battery fast, it was dead, and me without my charging cable. I tucked it away inside the pocket of my traveling bag. I'd wait until morning to call him. There was the off chance that he'd managed to drift to sleep even though I know that sleep usually eluded him on nights like this. I shifted to get more comfortable, went back to my reminiscing.

----

Bitter cold, dead of winter. Some things just really eat away at you when you make your living on the road. Even though David was the master at icy road conditions, my nerves will still shot by the time we made it through the ice storm and checked into the rinky-dink motel in the middle of absolutely nowhere. Too many hard fought matches, too many late nights, I just needed one straw to break the camel's back.

The straw came in the form of a night clerk informing us that the motel was overbooked, and threatening to shuttle us down the road to the next town with some cheap-ass vouchers for a free breakfast in the morning. Tired and beat as I was, I managed to rile up a good old Canadian rage and inform them we weren't moving. Eventually they managed to find a room, but it only had one bed. David shrugged good-naturedly, said we'd take it.

I have always said that Winnipeg winters made a body tough, and if you lived through them in your youth you never felt the cold again. Never, that is, until faced with an ice storm and a heater that doesn't work, piled on top of too many nights away from home, too many back body drops from a worker who can't tell his head from his ass, and having to share a bed.

David let me shower first, but even that didn't warm me up. I climbed into the bed, piled all the covers and my coat on top of me, and still I shivered hard enough that it felt like my bones were rattling. I was so miserable I didn't even hear him come into the room, didn't even feel the bed dip with his weight. I clung to the edge of the bed, muttered obscenities, and shook.

A strong arm hooked around my middle, pulled me back against his solid frame, and warmth oozed from his body into mine. He held me tight, even though I tried to struggle away, admonished me to lie still and sleep. It felt like one giant heating pad pressed from head to toe, I relaxed against him in bliss.

That was the beginning, there was no turning back from that night.

----

Decisions that look so good in the balmy days of April are hard to fathom in the harsh light of July. The blow had been softened that night in Anaheim with the promise of Japan, and cross-promotion dark matches. Several weeks went by until this uncomfortable bed in Upstate New York.

Creative had intended to send me to Smackdown instead of Jay. Send me as the tailor-made heel to antagonize the shiny new babyface Champ. Somehow they seemed to think it would be a natural, we had shone together before.

I trumped them with the ace up my sleeve, refused to enter negotiations over my contract, dug in my heels and said I'd let the thing expire if I didn't get the Cena shot instead. Dangled the bait of Fozzy over their heads until they fell into line. Now that the die was cast I would sign their extension. I wasn't ready to give up wrestling just yet.

Staring me in the face was the cold hard fact that push had come to shove, and I had given something up. Early morning light filtered around the shoddy curtains. I raised my hand up, the skin was still too tender to shove my real wedding band down over it. The vivid ink was easy to see in the dimness of the room, a bittersweet reminder.

It wasn't forever, I was sure of that. David needed to shine on his own, away from me. At least that's what I told myself.

On mornings like this though, with the hot and lonely drive stretching before me, I wondered if I had made the right decision. I rolled to the side and pulled the motel phone down beside me, listened while the sleepy clerk put the call through. An early morning pep talk, a promise to be there that night before his match. One way or another, we'd weather through this.

_Distribution: My site only_


	4. Succor

**Disclaimer: I do not own these characters, no disrespect is intended.**

**Succor**

"Why do you insist on using these girlie girl razors Dave?"

He gives me the same patient start he does every time I bring this up, only this time I know I'm only trying to soften the larger blow, the one he doesn't know about yet.

"Women aren't the only ones who want smooth, nick free legs Chris."

He snatches the bag away from me, turns to dig through his duffel for his shaving kit.

"You don't need a girl's razor to have smooth legs. Hell, your hands are too big, that's the problem. If you'd just slow down and take your time..."

"Perhaps you'd like to come in the shower with me then? After all, your hands are small like a girl's."

"You jackass," I can't help but laugh at him. "Go take your shower, get your nice smooth legs, and when you come out I'll have a bedtime story for you.

"I can hardly wait," he says.

I settle back on the bed to wait. I have no delusions that my news will crush him, and he'll cry against my shoulder until I invite him into my bed one last time.

One thing leads to another that's what I've always believed. Take things slowly enough and they will seem like the natural order of things.

The first step was the roster split. I knew he wasn't happy at being relegated to the second string, and I knew that if I'd fallen into line the way Vince wanted me to I would have made the sting of that blow easier to bear. But he had come to find out that he was a force to be reckoned with on his own. Gone were the days when he flitted around the outside edges of greatness, now he was the shining center. It didn't take long before he accepted the fact that we would only see one another hit and miss.

Step two in my grand scheme was the tattoo, a forever reminder of what we were. It hid beneath my wedding band, but we both knew it was there. How many late night drunken conversations had I endured in my career, guys trying to convince me to get ink? All it took was one gentle suggestion from him and I was feeling the bite of the needle.

That brought us to step three. The faucets squeaked, soon he'd be joining me again. Of course I could pretend I'd forgotten the promise of a story, or joke it off, but I had agonized about this long enough. I wasn't entirely sure what I feared more, that he would be upset, or that I would be if he wasn't.

The spicy aroma of his shower gel spills out into the room when he opens the door of the bathroom. I close my eyes and breathe in deeply, listen as he comes into the room and settles on the other bed.

I roll my head against the headboard, and look at him. He is still glistening from the shower, almost too big for the smallish bed.

"You ready?"

He looks up from his nail clippers. "Ready?"

"For the bedtime story."

"Thought you were having me on about that," he says as he lays the clippers on the table between the beds. "Is it a once upon a time story, or a naughty story?"

"Which would you prefer?"

"You know what I like."

I can feel the blush creep across my cheeks, and I say softly, "Sorry to disappoint you, but this time, the story is neither happy, nor arousing."

He shifts on to his side, watching me closely.

"I'm going to retire," I say.

There is a moment of absolute silence, and in that moment he doesn't react, in fact he and I both stop breathing. And then he makes a small gasp, a sound that's so incongruous it lends itself to the moment. I rush on before he can say anything.

"Do you realize I've been at this for fifteen years? Day in and day out since 1990, with hardly any breaks. Sure, I've conned a week or two at a stretch, I did have an injury once at the start of my career. But, for the most part, I've given up over 200 days a year of my life to wrestling and the public."

His eyes are closed now, he's just listening. I plunge ahead.

"I'm tired David, tired of the glass ceiling, tired of turning down tours for Fozzy when that's where my passion is now. I'm...tired of being away from Jess and Ash all the time. I want to mow the lawn on Saturdays, throw a ball in the yard with my son, and wake up to the quiet of my house at midnight for more than two days in a row. I want to take some time to enjoy my life before I'm too old and too beat up to enjoy it anymore."

His eyes open, and I see no accusations there, no envy, no incredulity.

"When I'm done playing with my toys I'll come back. It might be a month, it might be a year, but wrestling is in my blood. I'm not ready to throw in the towel just yet."

He shifts then, sits up on the edge of the bed. So close now I can feel him even though he's not touching me.

"If anyone needs, or deserves some time off Chris, it's you," he says, his voice gravelly and deep with emotion. "Honestly, you amaze me, and you inspire me. You're an inspiration to a lot of the younger guys. But, maybe I know you in ways they don't," he has the good grace to blush and amends, "Your psyche I mean."

He reaches over, and I give him my hand, wait for him to continue.

"I'll miss you," he says.

For some reason, those simple words hurt far more than if he'd told me to go and be happy.

"It's not forever," I whisper, "And I guess it would be different if I knew I'd run across you in the market, or at the post office, but DC is a bit of a jaunt for a quart of milk."

He squeezes my hand and raises his head, "I could move to Tampa."

"Don't be silly, the girls still have school. I'm not going to ask you to move your base of operations because I'm selfish enough that I want to see you."

"The girls live with their mom, and maybe I'm the one who's being selfish here."

"Jess adores Angie," I say, hope surging through me.

He smiles that radiant smile, and all is right with the world. I'm sure there will be several more conversations about it, this isn't something to be entered into lightly. I tug his hand, pull him toward me to join me on my bed.

"No sense in letting the night go to waste," I whisper when he settles beside me.

"I'm sure," he whispers back, "That you can think of one of those naughty stories now."

"I might need a little prodding."

"Ah, well, that's something I'm quite good at."

And he is.

_Distribution: My site only._


	5. Magnanimous

Disclaimer: I do not own these characters, no disrespect is intended, I have no right to use the names.

**Magnanimous**

"Your back is red."

He shifts under the coarse hotel sheets, hair tousled in his eyes, groggy and disoriented from the long flight and little time to readjust to the world down under.

"Is it?"

He winces as he flips from belly to back and holds a hand up to his face.

"What time is it?"

"Ten thirty," I tell him. I set the video camera aside, the footage of him sleeping saved for another day. I dig in my bag for a tube of lotion, then cock my head to the side and look at him. "Are you hungry?"

He drops his hand down, and licks his lips. "No. I'm still sleepy."

"Let me rub your back. We've got to be off for the zoo in about 45 minutes."

"It's just these fucking sheets," he says as he raises up on an elbow. "Let me get a shower and then we'll hit the road."

"Chris," I reach out and lay a hand on his shoulder. "The water will irritate your skin. Let me rub lotion on it." I hope he doesn't hear the nervousness in my voice.

When he smiles my heart skips a beat. Sometimes I wonder if he knows what he does to me when he looks at me this way. I should tell him, but when it comes to the point the words dry in my mouth. I watch him turn, settle on his belly again, his arms raised over his head. Maybe here, halfway around the world, I can find the nerve to tell him.

He sighs, pushes his face deeper into the pillow, and murmurs it feels good when I begin to massage the lotion into his back. Warm skin over hard muscles, I knead his flesh while the words whirl around in my head.

I don't know when a passion for the music turned into this, whatever I feel now. I am hard-pressed to even put a name to it. Perhaps it's normal for people to feel this way, so much time together on the road, living in each other's lives this way.

His lips are curved into a smile now, he looks peaceful. It strikes me that this nomad life is not alien to him, in fact he's far more accustomed to it than I am. He cut himself a break from his day job, and launched into more time on the road, more time away from Jess and Ash.

He's driven, he's an inspiration. I wonder if I have the courage to tell him the things I long to tell him. How much of an inspiration he is to me.

"Feel better?"

"You have good hands Rich," he murmurs, his voice muffled in the pillow.

"Don't go back to sleep on me," I say softly, my hands pressed against his lower back.

Before he can answer, his phone rings. I grit my teeth and watch as he fumbles for it. So close, and yet so far away.

"Hello?" His eyes are closed, he still has a blissful look on his face. "David. Where are you?"

He pulls away from me, struggles to sit upright on the bed. His expression has changed, he's more animated, he looks eager.

"Yeah? What's the weather like?"

I cap the lotion and turn away. Old habits die hard.

"We're going to the zoo, remember the Koalas?"

I run my hand through my hair, making it sticky with lotion. I can't quite hold the sigh back as I stand. He's completely engrossed in his conversation now.

"Half an hour Chris," I murmur, turn and walk across the room.

He waves a hand at me, and bends his head, his voice a breathy whisper now.

One of these days I'll stop giving to him. I turn at the door and look back, watch as he laughs and rises from the bed, the phone still stuck to his ear. One of these days, but not today.

_Distribution: TwoIntoOne only_


	6. Uncle

**Disclaimer: I do not own these characters, no disrespect is intended**

**Uncle**

The house is silent. It seems like it's never silent for long, middle of the night is when everyone finally hunkers down for the night. Even the dogs are quiet. Well, as quiet as they can be, snuffling in their sleep.

I should be used to the constant chaos, but I'm not. Sadly, it's the nights on my own during travel circuits that I cherish. I feel like Goldilocks each night, hoping to find the hotel bed that is "just right" for a good night's sleep. Even when I find one that's too soft or too hard it's the simple fact that I can enjoy a precious hour of quiet solitude that means the most.

She tries, but her contented slumber is an irritant. Insomnia rears its ugly head most often when she and I share a bed.

I have to stifle the grunt of pain as I roll from the bed, stand for a moment regaining my equilibrium before picking my way through the maze of dog toys and dirty laundry. My primary goal after getting home from Birmingham was getting to the point where I can dress myself, a daunting task when only one arm works properly, and one leg has what feels like a persistent knife stuck in it.

Fortunately my sweats are where I left them, folded neatly on the counter in the bathroom. I manage to pull them on, and carefully get myself into the worn matching jacket. After a deep breath I inch the zipper up and slip my feet into slippers. Warm milk and the darkened family room should do the trick.

I find it comforting to heat the milk in the battered old pan I've had since childhood. I know my mother cast a look askance at me when I retrieved it from her, but for some reason the milk tastes better when it's heated in that particular pan. Call me a sentimental fool remembering all those late nights when she used to heat it up for me. Comfort food comes from the heart after all.

When the milk is warmed, I carry it to the family room and my favorite chair. Might as well complete the paint by number picture of all things comfortable. Sweats, milk from "the pan", and my chair. The feeling is hard to describe, the warmth that begins to seep through me as half the milk disappears.

This isn't the first time my body has betrayed me this way, broken down when I least wanted it too. Pain is a constant companion. I set the mug aside and return the recliner to an upright position and lean forward, my good arm resting on my good knee. Visualization. Maybe I am Superman because in my mind's eye I can see the healing muscles beneath the fabric of the jacket, the covering of dragon on skin.

In the darkest hour before dawn is when I push myself, make the muscle work just the smallest amount. Grit my teeth against the pain. Tighten and release, each small step feeling like a mile. How long before it's finally well?

The cell in my pocket startles me, causes me to flex harder than I'd wanted. I gasp in pain, unearth the phone and bark into the receiver, "What?"

His voice removes all the pain and frustration in a flash, like the effect of the milk intensified by a thousand.

"I love you too," he says and I can see the smirk on his face, smell the scent that is uniquely him, feel the warmth his presence usually imparts. He continues before I can respond. "I knew you'd be awake, sitting in your chair, pushing yourself beyond your limits."

I settle back in the chair, flip it to recline again, cradle the phone against my cheek. "But that begs the question, why are you awake? I seem to recall your proclivity for burrowing beneath the covers until something the size of a ten point earthquake jars you awake." My voice is hoarse in the early morning, filled with asthma's wheeze.

His own voice is hoarse with sleep when he responds. "You and your big words old man," he says. "I don't have a fuck of an idea what you just said."

He always makes me smile. "I'm glad you called."

"I was," he pauses. In my mind's eye again I see him chewing his lip, forming the thought before he says it even though I already know what he's going to say. "Worried about you."

"Chris," I say softly, "You don't have to worry."

"Maybe I want to," he says. Before the argument can start in earnest, he changes the tack. "Did you get my package?"

I rack up the score in his column, and say, "It was just sticks Chris. What the fuck am I supposed to do with a bundle of sticks?"

"Let's see," he says, clearing the sleep from his throat. "You're downstairs in your favorite chair, and you've just finished a mug of warm milk. You've been awake and frustrated for probably a few hours, and you're hoping to catch a few winks before chaos descends again and the crew begins fretting over you, catering to your every whim when you'd rather do it all yourself. Am I right?"

"Spot on," I say, not surprised that he knows me this well.

"They aren't sticks," he says in a softer voice. "It's sage, an ancient Indian remedy for healing. Take them outside and put them in your chimenea."

"Sage?" It's uncanny how his voice carries this presence of command. I always follow his quiet suggestion because he's never steered me wrong. The sticks are tied with a piece of raffia and a few small beads. I find them on the shelf where I put them, up out of harm's way, knowing that eventually he'd call and explain this unusual gift.

"Are you outside yet?"

"Hang on, I'm not as speedy as I used to be." I retrieve the sticks, disable the alarm and slide the patio door open. There's a chill in the early morning air.

"Burn the whole bundle," he says softly, "Let the smoke surround you and breathe just enough in that you don't start wheezing."

As he talks I light the sage, blow the flame out and let them smolder in the small chimenea.

"When it's done," he continues, "Find a bed somewhere. A bed by yourself, preferably in a room with a door that has a lock, and let yourself sleep."

"Easier said than done around here," I murmur. The smoke has the same soporific effect on me as the milk. I close my eyes and let it surround me.

"Just do it. Call me to thank me when you wake up."

"Chris," I say, struggling to form the words, knowing if it were summer I'd just fall asleep outside. "I do love you know."

In the silence that follows I see his face as clearly as if he's standing right above me, that cherubic smile on his face. I'm past trying to understand the dynamic between us. The phone slips from my ear as I let the healing powers of the sage infuse me.

The last thought in my mind as the sage burns down is that I'm not ready to cry uncle. Not just yet.

Distribution: My site only.

Note: "Uncle" is a game I used to play when I was a child. After wrestling on the floor, the first person to cry "uncle" was out.


	7. Veracity

**Disclaimer: I do not own these characters, no disrespect is intended.**

**Veracity**

The smell of her perfume is cloying. Perhaps it's just that it reminds me of things I'd rather not think about, the fact that it took more than a day for it to fade away completely. She smiles nervously at me as we take our seats, and the tension between us is tangible to both of us, if not to the hordes held at bay behind the velvet rope. We don't even have a chance for conversation between us to get the uneasiness out of the air before they start pouring forward. And so we both pretend that there's nothing awkward between us.

The vibration of the cell against my hip startles me, and I shift uncomfortably in my chair. She spares me a look. My fingers are becoming black with the errant tips of markers. As surreptitiously as I can I slide the phone from the clip on my belt and open it to find a text message.

_c u in the bar after_

She looks at me again, eyebrow arched in question, curiosity evident as yet another adolescent boy shoves a picture in front of her. I turn away and pick out the response as quickly as I can, my thumbs feeling the size of baseball bats.

_what?_

I can't imagine what Chris is doing here in Massapequa. Last I heard he was up in Toronto, what would have brought him here? Yet another breathless fan enters my line of vision, yet another mark on my finger, and the phone vibrates again.

_r u austin now?_

That makes me chuckle and she casts a look askance in my direction. The handlers are giving us the sign that the line has been cut off, just a few more fans and then we're free. The phone vibrates again, but I ignore it. Chris knows how much I hate texting.

Melina and I bid each other a stilted good-bye. If it had been anyone else I'd have suggested a drink, or a late dinner, but she seems hell-bent on getting away from me. I let her take the limo, and as I hail a cab I press the bud into my ear and scroll through to find Chris's number.

"What happened, did your service drop out on you?"

"You know I have a bitch of a time with the keys on the phone," I say as I duck down into the back of the cab. "Where the fuck are you?"

"I told you to get a bigger phone," he says with a chuckle. "I'm in the bar at your hotel."

"I figured that much out Einstein," I say. "But what are you doing here? I thought you were hard at work rehearsing your play."

"A man's got to take a break sometimes," he says, his voice breaking up with interference.

"Look," I say, sitting forward as the cab pulls up into the entrance ramp to the hotel. "I've just spent 2 uncomfortable hours in public, let me get a bottle of wine sent up to my room."

"I thought you'd never ask," he says and the line goes dead.

* * *

"So," I say, "You never said what the fuck you're doing here?" I'm sprawled back against the headboard of the bed, watching him sip his wine delicately. He always preferred whiskey to wine, but when I play host he drinks what I give him. He raises his socked feet to rest on the foot of the bed.

"I came to see you if you must know," he says softly.

"You came all the way to New York to see me when I'll be home in Tampa tomorrow," I take a sip of the wine. It's not a good vintage, but it warms just the same.

He shrugs. "But I won't be in Tampa tomorrow. It's kind of ironic, you moving to Tampa, us thinking we'd be closer together, and me spending more time in Los Angeles than anywhere else."

"Cut to the chase Chris," I say with a slight leftover tinge of irritability that manages to rear its ugly head more often than not.

He looks at me for a moment, then sets his glass down on the table beside him. "I think you just answered your own question."

"Fuck," I say, and take a swallow of wine, I can feel the frown deepen. "I'm not in the mood for this cryptic bullshit."

"Dave," he says as he slides lower in his chair, "I came because I want to talk to you, get the straight shit from you without you hiding behind a rehab schedule, or four hungry mouths to feed, or a waiting flight to Europe."

I snort in disgust, but before I can say anything he goes on.

"I wanted to see you just like I used to see you. On the road, in some non-descript hotel room. A place where you let your defenses down and tell me the straight shit. You've burned yourself down to the wick again. I can hear it in your voice, see it in your eyes. You don't have your stop-gap anymore."

"What stop-gap?" I ask, sighing in frustration because I already know what he means. He does see through me the way other people can't. "I'm fine Chris."

"No, you're not. You fell asleep on those Germans, you're wearing your tension over this thing with Melina like you wear a pair of pants, and those lines around your mouth and your eyes aren't getting any smaller."

"Can't fucking help it that Kish kept me talking all the way to Germany. And there's no tension," I say, rolling my shoulders again.

"Bullshit."

"Well what do you want then," I say, already feeling the pieces shift into place the way they always used to when he'd call me out for keeping things to myself. "You want me to smile and say I'm pleased as punch to be sitting out of yet another Wrestlemania? What a track record, I've only managed to make it to fifty percent of the ones I've been eligible for. Want me to tell you I'm thrilled every time it comes up that I forgot I was supposed to lie about my age to protect Paul at every turn, and now it's a thorn in my side that I have to lie about it even more than I ever did? Or should I tell you how happy it makes me to read Pro Wrestling Illustrated and see them say I'll be gone from the business in five years because I've never had the passion."

I push up from the bed, pace away from him angrily, the loose ends of my shirt floating out behind me. I feel my muscles flex the way they always do when I'm angry.

"Or maybe I should just tell you that your interference cost me a night with Melina, sharing unadulterated bliss in one another's arms all because you tracked me down to hook up for a drink."

I pace back toward him now, lips pulled back in a snarl, hands clenched in fists at my sides.

"Are you done now?" he asks calmly.

"Fucking typical," I say and turn to flop down on the bed again.

He stands, walks over beside me and pours me another glass of wine, then shoves me out of the way and flops down beside me.

"You carry all this shit inside you, and you can't even hit the gym to work it out. No more four nights a week with the pressure relief of matches. And when I call you there's always some excuse why you can't take the time to find a quiet nook to settle down and unleash it all on me the way you always used to."

My fingers itch to take his hand in mine, I drink the wine instead, and when I speak my voice is gravelly hoarse. "I can't unleash it on you over the phone Chris, and you know it."

He raises up, straddles over me, his hands on either side of my head. "Talk to me David. Talk to me and I'll listen to you."

"I don't want," my eyes meet his, "To talk right now."

He slides back, straightens up, and plucks my undershirt out of my waistband. His hands are warm as they slide beneath, push the shirt up. I sit up, let him strip the dress shirt and the undershirt from me, then lay back and feel the tension draining from me.

"Talk," he says, "And then we'll see. I can't fix you if you don't let me."

I close my eyes when he reaches up and rubs the backs of his fingers gently across my cheek. I'm putty in his hands when he treats me this way, and before I know it all the pain and despair that I've collected in my heart over the past three months begins to pour out. He listens, he strokes my brow, and he makes the appropriate observations. And when I'm done I see no reprisals in his eyes, only an offer.

Here, in this non-descript hotel room as he put it, it's just he and I. He bends forward, lips touch lips, and another emotion coils out of me.

Here, in this secret world, I feel whole again.

_Distribution: TwoIntoOne only._


	8. Conflagaration

**Disclaimer: I don't own these character names, no disrespect is intended.**

_Author's note: I know the word is misspelled, you'll have to read it to see why. ;)_

**Conflagaration**

Chris is right on time, which means he is fifteen minutes ahead of schedule. She, of course, is running behind schedule, perpetually behind schedule. She gives life to my mother's tired old saying about being late for one's own funeral. Her shower is still running as he taps on the door. I knew eventually their paths would cross, but I can't help but wish it were any day other than today when I've got a hangover the size of Texas.

As soon as I let him in I sense his surly mood. I can always count on him being early, but it's a rare occasion indeed when he's in a less than jovial mood. I can sense there will be fireworks, and not the kind I was envisioning when I asked him over.

We exchange pleasantries, and he ends up with whiskey instead of coffee. I settle for water. The sun is glaringly bright outside the window, and right on cue as I adjust the shades she emerges from the bedroom.

"You said one Dave, and I'm just a little..."

Her voice trails off when she spots him sprawled on the couch, his feet propped up amid the clutter on the coffee table. His spiky hair, piercing blue eyes, rumpled tee and cozy jeans would make anyone lose their train of thought, and she does have an eye for the attractive.

"It's ok," I say softly, inserting myself between them, my hand in a gentle caress on the small of her back, "Can't change what's already done."

I watch as she drags her eyes back to me with an effort. I can see in the depths of them that she wants to stay. She raises up on tiptoes, and as I bend to brush my lips over hers I am already marshaling my thoughts for what will come after she leaves, and I'm left facing him alone. I'm not coward enough to give in to her will this time, and in a flash I'm promising her that I'll be by to pick her up in plenty of time to catch our flight to Indiana the next day.

Another kiss, a wave, and she's gone, leaving only the scent of her shampoo. I turn, dump a stack of newspapers off the couch and flop down, bare feet propped up on the table beside his.

"Well," he says, and he rubs a finger over his nose, "I see you didn't waste any time."

"Meaning?"

"You know what I mean, out with the old, in with the new. Looks like you didn't even give yourself long enough to reflect, let your buttons pop back up again after they were all pushed down." He rests his glass on his thigh, turns his head to look at me.

"I didn't ask you over here to lecture me," I say tiredly.

"Oh this isn't a lecture," he says. "You want a lecture I'm sure I can muster one up for you, I just want to know why." He closes his mouth abruptly as if he had intended to say more but thought better of it.

"She's pretty."

"And?"

"And I like her."

He snorts, "And?"

"Fuck, I have needs Chris." I lift the bottle to take a swallow, and when I lower it he reaches over to take my wrist in his hand. I don't have to look, I know it's red.

"You know," he says as his thumb sweeps over the bruise, "They make padded handcuffs."

I yank my hand away from him, "Who says it's from handcuffs?"

He drains the rest of his drink and stands up, "You said it yourself Dave, you have needs."

"Nice," I say as I watch him go and pour another drink, "This from a man who has a bevy of porn stars in his MySpace."

"Oh no, we're not making this about me." Drink in hand he heads back to the couch. "This whole conflagaration is all about you."

"Conflagration," I say softly.

"That's what I said, conflagaration," he says as he sits back down beside me.

"No, you gave it an extra syllable. I'm just saying that if you're going to hurl an epithet at me you should at least pronounce it right."

"For fuck's sake Bautista," he snarls, "You always have to win don't you. Always have to have the last word. God forbid we ever have a civil conversation any more. You know, I really don't know why the fuck I even came over here in the first place."

The anger has drained out of me now, and I sigh. "I do."

"Ok, well then enlighten me."

I reach over and put my hand on his knee, guide the hand holding his drink down so that the icy bottom of it rests on my wrist. "You came over here because I invited you. It wasn't my intention to expose you to...my proclivities, but I should have known better."

"I'll say," he says, but he doesn't move the glass so I know he's listening now.

"The tables are turned Chris. Usually you're the one listening to me rant and carry on about how life isn't fair. You're the only one I don't have to hold up a façade for. You know how to push the buttons that release the pressure." I turn to look at him. "It's your turn to unleash on me."

He lifts the glass and turns my hand over, carefully sets the glass down on the inside of my wrist.

"I'll bounce back David," he says softly. "A few kicks in the nuts aren't going to make me run for the hills."

I shift closer so that my shoulder rubs along his. "What do you always tell me Chris?"

"That padded handcuffs don't leave a mark?"

I can sense that his good humor is slowly being restored. "You've never told me that before, and even if you had I'd have told you that padded handcuffs are for girls."

"Damn you," he says and he sighs, "I always tell you not to bottle shit up, and that's exactly what I've been doing. I can't let it out on Jess she's got her hands full with the kids. It's not fair to let it out on Rich and the boys, and my time in L.A. is for me to enjoy not talk about all the ways my life is wrong." He smiles at me ruefully. "No one diverts my foul mood like you."

"And that is why you came over here today." I extract my hand and rub my wrist.

"It's not the only reason," he says as he turns on the couch and pulls his legs up under him.

"Pictures of porn stars don't keep a body warm at night, eh?"

"I've got plenty of ways to keep my body warm at night," he says.

"Maybe," I say, turning to face him, "But what you wanted was a conflagaration."

"You sure you have the energy?"

"Try me."

There's plenty of time for talking, and pleasantries, but never enough time for this. Needs get met, but never fully satisfied. It doesn't matter what anyone thinks, it's what we know.

_Distribution: TwoIntoOne only._


	9. Specious

**Disclaimer: I do not own these characters, no disrespect is intended.**

**Author's Note: **This takes place directly after the 6/23 Raw (Draft) and contains spoilers.

**Specious**

"Son of a bitch."

"Easy Dave, just sit down, let me look at it."

The trainer is hovering around me like a moth beating on a screen door. Blood mixed with sweat has trickled into my eye, and to make it all worse adrenaline is pumping through me like a freight train. I grab a towel from his hand and press it against the top of my head.

"Fuck." It hurts.

"Damnit Batista, sit down and let me look at it, you need stitches."

I close my eyes to make the stinging stop and start pacing in the small room. This had all happened way too fast. I had grown accustomed to the Smackdown travel schedule, had adjusted to the rug being roughly pulled out from under me in the summer of 2005, had gotten into my comfort zone. The trade to Raw was a surprise and a disappointment in the immediate aftermath. But disappointment had turned to a glimmer of hope that there would be a revival of my feud with Paul, and then that had been smashed as surely as the collision with Adam had cracked my head open. There were too many thoughts jumbling around in my head to sit docilely and let the doc stitch me up.

"Hey. If you won't sit down for McDoctor here, then sit down for me and let me take a look."

His voice is soft and I hardly hear it over the roar in my head, but I can feel his hand on me, easing me back to reality.

"Leave me alone Chris," I snap as I try to wrench away from him.

His hand becomes firmer on me, and I hear that edge enter his voice, the one he has perfected over his hiatus from wrestling.

"Sit down before I leg sweep you down and make it even worse than it already is."

With a heavy sigh I plunk down on the table, let the trainer remove the towel and apply an icy cloth in its place. I wince, and refuse to open my eyes to see Chris's smug expression. When the trainer pulls the cloth away I can't hold back the growl as he prods at my skull.

"This looks worse than it is," he says. "Four stitches ought to close you up."

"There, see, that wasn't so bad was it?" A sarcastic tone has entered Chris's voice now.

"Bite me Irvine," I mutter under my breath, and in my head I hear a string of his comebacks about how he'd be only too glad to comply. I hunch over in irritation. But he's silent, so I concentrate on relaxing so the trainer can do his work, and I can get the hell out of Dodge.

The trainer tosses me another cloth, and he turns to make his preparations. I dab at my face, my eyes, and watch as Chris settles into a chair to watch.

"Don't you have something better to do?" I ask as I toss the cloth aside.

"Better than this?" he snorts, "I hardly think so." He gives me a patented smirk, "Watching you cry like a little girl is way up at the top of my list of things."

Instead of answering, I flip him the bird and he has the good grace to blush and waggle his brows. The trainer goes to work on the stitches, and I hardly feel a thing. It's either the adrenaline still, or I've had stitches so many times that I'm numb to the feeling.

When he's done he turns to wash his hands. He pours out a horse pill and a cup of water, "Take this," he says briskly. "If you still have pain tomorrow come see me and I'll give you another."

Reluctantly I take the pill, then slide off the table to stand. "Thanks," I manage.

He waves me off as I level a look at Chris.

"Happy now?" I ask.

"As a clam," he says, and he follows me out the door.

Somehow I knew he intended to follow me, but I pretend to ignore him as I strip out of my trunks and dress out in loose track pants and jacket. Fuck the dress code, it's not far between the building and the hotel. Any fans still lurking around will have to get an eyeful.

"I'll drive," he says cheerfully.

The thoughts start jumbling around again as I follow him. I don't even bother to argue with him, I just put my head down and follow him from the arena like I had done thousands of times in the balmy days before he retired right out from under me. I get in the car by rote, sit in silence as he maneuvers the short distance from the building to the hotel. I even follow him willingly up the back way, and down the hall. It isn't until we stand in front of his room that I snap out of it.

"Hold on," I say as I reach out to brace myself against the wall. "These aren't the good old days anymore."

"Maybe not," Chris says, and he opens the door and steps inside the room. He holds the door open and meets my eyes as he looks back over his shoulder, "But I didn't play my cards this way just to have you traipse down the hall to your own cold room."

I lunge forward just as he slips his hand from the door. A quick look over my shoulder confirms that no one else is in the hallway, and I flip the security lock on the door as it closes.

"The fuck does that mean?" I growl.

He's already in the room, his shoes kicked off, and white-socked feet propped up on the bed as he slouches down in the only chair. "Get me a beer, and I'll tell you."

"I'm the one's injured," I grouse as I pop open the mini-bar and take out a bottle of beer for him and water for me.

"Mmmhmm," he says as he twists off the top and watches me, "Maybe so, but I'm the one with the upper hand here." He smirks again and waves his bottle toward the bed, "Sit there, don't want you passing out from loss of blood."

With a sigh I sit down on the edge of the bed, take a sip of water, then lean my arms forward on my thighs; level myself so I can meet his eyes. "Explain."

"Come on Einstein, figure it out," he says, and without even giving me time to speculate he continues on. "When McMahon asked me to come back, I said I would with a few conditions attached. Naturally I said I wanted control over my own programs, merchandise, all that shit. I wasn't gonna get stuck parroting lines that were written for me, and hawing shirts that look like they were designed by a ten year old."

"Naturally," I say softly, and down the rest of the water.

"But I also asked for something else," he says, "And eight months later it finally came through."

I arch a brow, and as the realization strikes, he says the words,

"I wanted you back on Raw."

"Bloody hell Chris," I feel the rage billow up inside me, "Why? You think I can't take care of myself? You think I need you mother-henning me? I did just fine with you gone," emotion clogs my throat and my voice cracks, "I'm not the same now as I was back then." I surge to my feet and resume the pacing I had started in the trainer's small room. "You think maybe you might have asked me before you started deciding my future as it best suits you? I like Smackdown, I was comfortable with my role, I didn't need anyone trying to make me over."

"Comfortable?" he says and he remains irritatingly calm as he folds his fingers together and watches me pace. "In the role of Smackdown patsy, playing second fiddle to Adam and Mark, phoning in a horrific 'Mania match to show some brand supremacy that made Smackdown look like a joke. You're comfortable in that role?"

"Fuck you Irvine," I roar. "There may have been a time when you were inside my head and knew what I desired, but those days died off when you allowed yourself to be carried from the building kicking and screaming. I don't want you in my head anymore."

"Really," he's still unfazed as he slides his feet from the bed and leans forward in the chair. "Is that why I saw such hope in your eyes when you faced Shawn and me in the ring? Is that why I saw the fire when you delivered promos that were perfectly spot-on during our three way dances? You're not a good liar Bautista; you might be able to get away with it when you talk to Vickie Guerrero, but not Chris Irvine. You want this a damn sight more than you're willing to admit."

There's a throbbing ache in my head as I reach down and haul him up, slam him against the wall, lean into him. "I don't want this at all Chris, not like this. I don't want you making my decisions anymore."

He wriggles out from under me and neatly reverses our positions. It's either he's gotten stronger in the interim, or I really have lost a lot of blood. He keeps me pinned against the wall with a strong arm, and raises his hand up in front of my face. I flinch back, even though I know he has no intentions of hitting me. There, right in front of my face I find he's holding his left hand, the tattoo a stark contrast against the pale flesh of his finger.

"You do want it David. This isn't about me making your decisions for you; this is about promises that meant something to me, and to you. This is a dog eat dog world we live in, take your comfort where you may." He takes a deep breath, and his voice is a whisper as he continues, "There was no way I was coming back to this ungodly grind without you. I waited long enough."

It's only there in a flash, the unguarded look in his eyes where he shows me the true depth of his feelings, and if I'm honest in that flash he sees it in mine too. We both close our eyes, and he loosens his hold on me. I sag against the wall, barely aware of the sounds of him moving about in the room. The mini-bar opens again, and I hear the tops snap off two beer bottles this time. With an effort I rouse myself and walk over to join him on the bed.

We touch the bottles together, and regardless of the fact that I've just downed 800mg of ibuprofen we upend the bottles and drink our silent toast. I heave a deep sigh as I lower my bottle.

"You're right Chris," I murmur.

"I know I'm right," he says.

It's like a mask has dropped over his face when he turns toward me. The naked emotions are clothed again, and the cocky heel has overtaken him. "What was that you said earlier about biting?"

All the anger and tension drains in a snap and I chuckle, "I said 'Bite me Irvine.'"

"That's what I thought you said."


	10. Merciless

**Disclaimer: I do not own these character names, no disrespect is intended**

**Merciless**

The round ball of dough made a little plop as it landed in the dish of cinnamon sugar. Chris rolled it around and transferred it on to the cookie sheet. He took a perverse pleasure in flattening each disc out with the back of a spoon. It didn't change anything about the way he was feeling, but it helped to have some power over something as helpless as a ball of dough.

The sheet filled he turned to put it in the oven and promptly tripped over the dog.

"Son of a…" he caught himself and after he popped the sheet in the oven he bent down and tousled his ears, "You're right in the way silly. Why are you sleeping on the floor anyway? Mommy's not home; you could be all over the bed by now. Go on, get to it!"

Indeed the dog did lever himself up from the floor as Chris turned to wash his hands, but it wasn't to go get up on the bed, it was due to his sixth sense that alerted him whenever someone came to the front door. The extra tail wagging and sneezing communicated that this wasn't just "someone at the door."

Chris grimaced as he picked up the towel. Of course, he could pretend he wasn't home, but somehow David always knew, and there'd be ten kinds of hell to pay for ignoring him. With shuffling steps he headed out of the kitchen and opened the front door.

The storm had blown itself out, but the sky was still overcast. Of course this did not prevent David from wearing his impossibly expensive sunglasses, and as always he looked impeccable. He reached up to take the glasses off as Chris popped the towel up over his shoulder.

"To what do I owe this invasion?" he quipped.

"Is that an invitation to come in?" David asked as he stepped across the threshold.

"It wasn't," Chris said, and he slammed the door shut, turned and headed back to the kitchen, "It's just that you usually don't come over here without calling first."

"Eh," David followed him down the hall, "I was out running errands, noticed there was only one car in the driveway, figured I'd give it a shot."

"Jess is out in California," Chris said. He dropped the towel by the sink and went back to work on his cookies. "With the hurricane coming I figured she and the little ones would be safer out there for a few weeks."

David's nose twitched as he boosted himself up on a stool at the counter. "You making cookies?"

"Very good Einstein," Chris said. Plop, another ball of dough into the dish of cinnamon sugar. "What the fuck kind of errands are you running that takes you by my place anyway?"

"Went to that dry cleaner you suggested," David said. "Besides that, I came over to see how you're doing."

"And what if there were two cars in the driveway?" Chris said as he scraped the last of the dough out of the bowl. "Would you just have assumed I was fine?"

"Cut the crap Chris," David said. "I tried to catch up with you yesterday, but you took off like a bat out of hell. That alone suggested you weren't fine, but compounded by the fact that you were screening my calls…if there had been two cars in the driveway I'd have knocked on the door anyway."

"I'm fine David," Chris said with more than a hint of irritation. "Everyone keeps asking me and I keep saying, I'm fine. Hell, it's one of the biggest angles of the year. The only thing bigger in 2008 was Ric Flair retiring."

David folded the arms of his glasses and set them on the counter in front of him. "I wasn't talking about the angle Chris, I was talking about you."

The buzzer tinged and Chris turned to pull the sheet of crispy cookies out of the oven. He set them aside and reached for the next sheet ready to go in, closed the door with an extra thump.

"What's the difference?" he said as he reached for a spatula. "If it wasn't for the angle you'd be at home right now doing whatever Dave Batista does on an off day, so I see no separation between the two."

"And you'd be in Los Angeles with your family instead of here making cookies." David reached for a cookie and dropped it, "Hot."

"Because I just took them out of the oven!" Chris said. He frowned as he put the rest of the cookies on the rack, then set the sheet in the sink. He turned and took a carton of milk out of the fridge and two glasses from the cupboard. "I'm fine David."

"You're not," David said. He eyed the milk, then looked up at Chris. "I don't want milk."

"Oh, but you want cookies I take it?" Chris said. He slipped two of the cooled cookies on to a napkin and handed them over.

"Talk to me Chris," David said, "And no lies this time. I really don't believe that the plan going in to this match was you punching Shawn's wife in the mouth. I watched the tape, I saw you twist your body. Something went wrong."

"Fuck," Chris said. He slopped some milk into his glass and took a long drink. The glass set on the counter he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "Why can't you just mind your own business?"

David sighed and leaned backwards. He took a bite of cookie and licked his lips. "These would be better with chocolate chips."

"They're snickerdoodles, they're not supposed to have chocolate chips," Chris said as he popped one into his mouth, "Besides, you're always harping on watching what you eat, I didn't think you even ate chocolate."

"I don't," David said.

"You're fucking trying my patience old man," Chris said.

"Look," David said as he broke his second cookie into pieces, "I'm not as good as you are at making me break down and talk about what's bothering me, but do you have any idea how much I appreciate it? I didn't come here to play tag with you, I came here to make you talk about what's clearly bothering you. Do me a favor and let it out so I can go home."

Chris smirked, "You don't want to go home."

David slid off the barstool and stood. He flexed his muscles until they bulged against his t-shirt. "I mean it Chris, no more bullshit games."

"For the record, you don't scare me," Chris said. He turned as the buzzer tinged again. He was silent as he took the cookies out of the oven and transferred them to the cooling rack. At last he put the spatula and oven mitts in the sink. "Fine. Come with me."

In the living room Chris poured two tumblers of whiskey, handed one to David as he sank down on the couch. "Humor me and drink this."

David's nose wrinkled as he took a sip, then settled back to listen.

"Chris Irvine would never hit a woman, even for a storyline. Chris Jericho is a whole different ball of wax." He paused to take a deep swallow of his drink. "The plan went awry. It made for good television, and it did what I wanted it to do in the long run, it made people hate me even more, probably turned those people who were still on the fence. Chris Jericho is a bastard."

"Stating the obvious here," David said, "But it left Chris Irvine a little troubled."

Chris closed his eyes. "There's no crying in wrestling, even Rebecca Michaels knows that."

David set his tumbler down on a side table and moved closer to Chris on the couch. This was a dance they'd done several times before, the silent asking, the giving and taking. Chris moved against the curve of David's body and after a moment laid his head against his shoulder.

"This is all I wanted Chris, for you to admit that it bothered you," David murmured. He left the rest of it unsaid, the part about wanting Chris to take comfort from him, comfort he was more than willing to give.

"You know it's not all you wanted," Chris said, "And for once I wish we could just say it out loud and not hide behind euphemisms."

"There's no one stopping you from saying it Chris. If there'd been two cars in your driveway I still would have come up to your door." He turned then, looked directly into Chris's eyes. "But if she was here, then I'm not afraid to admit to you that I would have left here with a little less than what I wanted."

Chris stayed against the back of the couch, his eyes wide open, his lips parted as his breathing came a little faster. "Then say it David, tell me what you wanted."

David leaned closer; his lips hovered over Chris's. So many times in impersonal hotel rooms on the road this dance happened without asking, but somehow there was power in saying the words now.

"What I wanted Chris," there was a hitch in his voice, "Was to feel your body against mine."

Chris eased up, touched his lips to David's, "You already have big man," he whispered, "But I want more."

Somehow it never felt wrong, even here.


	11. Sanctimonious

**Disclaimer: **I do not own these character names, and no disrespect is intended.

**Sanctimonious**

_"You're fired!"_

It was a struggle to keep the smile off my face when she spat the words at me, had to call on all that acting ability I have locked inside me to look hurt and confused. I pulled it off though because that's what Chris Jericho does, he takes care of business. I had special business to take care of, Stephanie knew it, Vince knew it, and there were certain promises made that I should have never expected to be kept, but I never seemed to learn my lesson.

I kept my phone off after I left the building and got a shuttle over to the airport. Two things made me chuckle as I made the short trip. First of all I knew David was trying to call me and couldn't reach me due to the phone being off, and secondly the FAA designation for the Sioux City airport is SUX. In my head the two collided, and David probably thought it SUKD that I wasn't answering his call, but I had my reasons.

There were no direct flights back to Tampa, and with the one stop it was over five hours of traveling time. Factor in the TSA checks, the baggage hassles, I wouldn't be home until early morning. I didn't even have to hope because I knew he'd find it worth it.

During the long flight I had time to rationalize all the reasons why it was ok to go to David first before going home. He was hurt, he was facing the fact that he would miss yet another 'Mania, and worst of all he couldn't even start rehab for another six weeks. The logic sounded feeble in my head that he needed me more than my wife and three young children, but something told me she'd understand. Jess had come to accept many years ago the unique bond between Dave Bautista and me.

I was weary and sore by the time I pulled up in his driveway, the sun was just coming up. I let myself in and was up the stairs to his room before he even woke up.

----

"Chris…what the fuck…?"

"Aw c'mon big man, you can do better than that," I sat on the edge of his bed, "I got myself fired for you, flew all night to get here and all you can do is curse me out?"

"No, I just," he raised his hand to rub his eyes vigorously, "I was worried."

I snorted, "Worried? About what? How long have you been on the roster? If they really wanted to fire me, they wouldn't do it on air."

"I know, I just," he pushed himself up against the headboard, "I wasn't expecting it."

"And you're not yourself." I tipped my head to the side, "How's it going?"

"It's going," he murmured and sighed, "Slowly."

"Well you got me for a whole week. I'm here to put that smile back on your face. I asked for the week off so I could mollycoddle you."

"Why Chris? You don't owe me anything."

"Stop looking a gift horse in the mouth," I kept the edge out of my voice, just barely.

----

He gave me that lazy smile, and all was right in the world. Then came the good-natured bantering for me to get out of the room because he wasn't decent, and me telling him he was never decent. The bantering died out when I saw the ugly red gash on his leg, and I meekly left him to dress on his own. He shrugged it off like it was nothing, but I knew better.

I spent the week shuttling him back and forth to physical therapy and the gym for upper body workouts. He eased and relaxed as the week went on, and by Sunday I realized I had gotten him over that hump that an athlete faces when the surgery meds wear off and harsh reality dawns that there's a long road ahead.

----

"So, what's the game plan going forward?" he asked as he sat in his recliner, hands folded across his chest.

"I go back tomorrow, Vince grandly re-instates me, and the Princess eats crow."

The look on his face when he tipped his head to the side told me that he understood the business far more than he let on sometimes, "Just like that?"

"My place is cemented David," I said with more conviction than I felt. "It's not like I asked them for a two year sabbatical so I could sow wild oats. I said I wanted a week, and that it was in their best interest for me to come and put the smile back on your face."

He rolled his eyes, "You tell them you're sleeping with me too?"

That gave me pause, usually we didn't say those words out loud. "I'm not sleeping with you David," I said at last.

He closed his eyes and leaned back further in his chair. "It just seems that you telling them you wanted time off to come and take care of Dave Batista was a telegraph."

"It's none of their fucking business," I asserted. "They know guys forge bonds on the road, and whether you know it or not a lot's banking on your return." I sat forward on the couch, and when that didn't get me close enough to make eye contact I stood over his chair and railed down at him. "I told you a long time ago that if you came out of that shell you were hiding in you'd wrap the live crowd around your finger so fast McMahon would be kissing your ass before he even realized it. And I was right. You're a money player now David, they want what's best for you because that's what's best for the business, or rather their bottom line."

A silence fell between us then while we both contemplated the gilding of the lily, the semantic game we always played when it came down to the two of us alone. _Sleeping together_ did not cover the way we felt about one another.

"You'll be ok now David," I finally murmured at last. "You know you've got a lot of hard work in front of you, but you're ready for it. Life deals us bitter blows and we show our resiliency by kicking it in the stones and rising above. You know I'm just a phone call away when I'm on the road, and a stone's throw away when I'm not."

"I know," he said, the petulant edge gone from his voice now. "And as much as it looks like I don't, I appreciate it Chris." He struggled with his words for a moment, "I know it's more than surface caring."

"Hell yeah it is," I said forcefully, hoping to lighten the mood. I backed toward the couch and settled down, pulled out the phone and sent a quick text. I knew he was watching me, I tipped the phone to the side so he could watch the screen power down, and then I tossed the phone to the far end of the couch.

The meaning was not lost on him, and he smiled.

----

I stirred restlessly on the hard chair outside her office door. True to my promise I'd been back on time, and true to form she kept me waiting until nearly time for the segment to air. Most of that tension on screen was not an act on my part, I guess it was what you call method acting, or the sheer agony of live television. As the time dragged on I began to put two and two together, and when Paul emerged from the room that had been earmarked as Steph's the message was clearly sent.

I only listened with half an ear as she laid out the series of events for that night. Inside my heart broke because I knew David would take the blame upon himself. There had to be some way I could communicate to him that this was just business.

"…on your knees."

My eyes snapped up to her face, and Vince's smirk over her shoulder was the nail in the coffin. I nodded at them, and somehow kept the vitriol out of my voice as I agreed with their plan.

There were thousands of eyes on me as I stepped through the ropes, but I only cared about the two back home in Tampa. I counted on him to listen.

The word "petulant" was the cue, because so many times I had used the word in regards to his moods. If that hadn't sucked him in then the whole charade didn't matter.

"I'm thinking about reinstating Chris Jericho, superstar of the year…"

At that moment I slipped my thumb between my first and middle finger. It was a nervous gesture that David had picked up on so many times in the past. He teased me relentlessly about insecurity that lingered. I knew he watched my hands avidly, whether I was speaking or not. That was the signal I couldn't betray with my eyes, that somehow I'd make this ok, come out on top.

"…but I'm not."

After that I switched to autopilot, and even in Chicago I felt that bond to Tampa. Yet another bump in the road, but we'd weathered so many before we were good at it.


	12. Morass

**Disclaimer: I do not own these characters, no disrespect is intended.**

**Morass**

If I'd had my choice I wouldn't be here in Seattle, hanging on backstage, answering the same question a hundred times over. _"Oh yeah, the leg's great, rehab's going well, probably August…"_ But Chris can be very persuasive when he wants to be, he's the master at deflecting back away from himself. _"It would mean a lot to me, but I understand if you'd rather stay home."_ There was no way around it, if Chris wanted me here, I was here.

After all the matches ended, things began to settle down somewhat, and I found a spot to sit and observe. I've always had a hard time melting in to the background, but backstage at a WWE event was the perfect place for Dave Bautista to become invisible.

"Watch out! Jericho will hit you! He'll knock you right down!"

I turned my head, found Vince had interrupted his conversation with Lawler just as Chris walked past. The pained look on Chris's face deepened when Vince continued his joke,

"Especially if you're a girl!"

I chewed my lower lip, watched as Chris joined the conversation for a moment, could see the worry lines deepening around his eyes. He was hiding something from Vince, and in that moment I understood why he had asked me to come.

How many times had he been there for me? How many times had he sacrificed his well being for mine? Chris jokes in interviews that he's as tough as a hockey puck, but the thing is, it isn't a joke. He is tough; he is able to work through just about anything while having loads of tenderness and understanding for everyone else.

I saw the chinks in his armor in a flash, and when he finally broke away from the pair of them I made my move, followed him until he gained the haven of his dressing room. Me closing the door behind us caught his attention.

"Hey," he said, "I know you're tired. I probably shouldn't have even asked you to come." He smiled, and the worry was effectively squashed down again. "Why don't you go back to the hotel, we'll meet up for breakfast tomorrow before you fly home."

I tipped my head to the side. "No."

"David," he said, his tiredness coming through in his voice, "I'm sorry."

I stepped closer. "Sorry for what Chris? Sorry for dragging me out here, or sorry for losing your cool with a pack of unruly fans?"

"Touché," he said softly.

"Talk to me Chris," I said. "Tell me about it."

"There's nothing to tell," he said as he slumped down in a chair. "I'm the golden boy, I sell my heeldom so well that it drives the fans nuts. They hang around like a pack of dogs waiting to spit on me, harangue me, it's just like the old days only better because it's Chris Jericho riling them up."

"Is that what you believe, or is that what Vince believes?"

He smiled again, tiredly. "It's what we all believe." He took a deep breath. "I know what you're trying to do David, and I'm too tired to argue with you."

"I'm not arguing with you Chris, or did you mean argue as in 'leave me alone Bautista, I can take care of myself?'"

"That," he said.

I took the only other chair and sat down, leaned forward to meet his gaze. "I know you can take care of yourself Chris, I've been watching you do it for nearly seven years now. But you'd be lying if you told me that you asked me out here just to watch you flail around in the Chamber with guys who have a God-complex. I'm not trying to fix you, and I'll never try to fix you. That's your job. If you can fix me, then you can fix yourself."

"So, then why are you here?"

I could see a little of the anxiety fading; the well-placed humor had done its trick. "You asked me to be here," I said simply.

He closed his eyes and slumped lower in his chair.

"Look Chris," I said as I leaned back in my own chair, "I get all that, the giant heel who does so well at his job that people think he's really an asshole. You're able to pull that off in ways that the guys in the good old days never could. There's a line that divides you. Half is Chris Irvine, the daddy, the husband, and the nice guy who would never hit a girl. The other half…"

"Is Chris Jericho who not only hit a girl but spit on her to boot."

I waited for him to open his eyes, and when he did I raised my eyebrows in silent question.

"I didn't know she was behind me," he said at last, "But I didn't spit on her."

"So you can take all the press on this, aside from the part that says you hit a girl."

He gave me a patented Jericho smirk. "Yeah."

"Well," I said as I drew a deep breath, "I guess this too will pass."

He laughed then, not a deep laugh, but a small resigned laugh. "So sayeth the great Batista." He bent to work on the laces of his boots. "Have I ever told you that you're good for me?"

"A few times," I said. "So, you still think I should go back to the hotel, sleep, and then meet you for breakfast?"

"Nope," he said. He stood and started stripping out of his clothes, reaching for street clothes.

"That's what I thought."


End file.
